


goodnight, travel well

by anomalousity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Artist Dean, Con Artists, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1710941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalousity/pseuds/anomalousity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who the hell is Dean Winchester?”</p><p>Castiel forces a passive shrug, trying to play it off for what it isn’t. He tries to tell himself that Dean isn’t sitting in the shitty hotel room, probably a mess by now, worried sick about him. He tells himself that Dean isn’t counting the bullets in Castiel’s gun and seeing if he croaked or was captured. Hopefully, he’ll think he’s dead and not come after a still hot trail, but Castiel knows better.</p><p>So he spits some blood onto the detective’s shiny shoes and forces a grin. “He’s my best girl.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	goodnight, travel well

The hand on his face is harsh; stinging to the touch, but Castiel just rolls his shoulders and spits blood on the floor.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says with a laugh. His suit is beyond tattered, and it’ll cost a fortune to replace in these trying times. Maybe he should’ve gone with a safer alias, regardless of the diminished reward.

The second slap is less painful and more numbing, but it’s a little disconcerting that he can see stars sparking in his vision. He tries to roll his shoulders again, but stops when black spots erupt over his peripherals. His breath rattles warm in his chest, his mouth tastes like blood, and when the next blow is dealt to his middle, he can’t choke back the groan.

The detective grins at the pathetic whimper that tears from his chest before he slumps in his seat and breathes, “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Who the hell is Dean Winchester?”

Castiel forces a passive shrug, trying to play it off for what it isn’t. He tries to tell himself that Dean isn’t sitting in the shitty hotel room, probably a mess by now, worried sick about him. He tells himself that Dean isn’t counting the bullets in Castiel’s gun and seeing if he croaked or was captured. Hopefully, he’ll think he’s dead and not come after a still hot trail, but Castiel knows better.

So he spits some blood onto the detective’s shiny shoes and forces a grin. “He’s my best girl.”

It earns him another slap, this time followed by an angry hand tugging at the tie that’s still miraculously wrapped around his neck. Castiel moans when the man pulls him out of his chair, onion breath hot and repulsive against his face when he growls, “Nice fuckin’ try, Pokrovitel.” He releases Castiel and slaps him again, and Castiel hears the distinct crack of his jawbone.

He wills the nausea and knee-jerk pain away as he smiles up at the detective. “Campbell, is it?” Castiel forces his grin to widen when the detective takes a subconscious step back. “Have you heard of Levinsky? Because he sure knows you.”

Campbell doesn’t reach out to him; he doesn’t so much as threaten him before stomping out of the room and slamming the door shut behind him. Castiel doesn’t care that the other detectives can see him through the two-way mirror when he knees between his knees and hurls up half of his lunch. He does care a little when he whimpers, but the shame is worth it when a slender guy pushes through the door with a glass of water.

“Thanks,” Castiel says when he helps him up and wipes away some of the blood and vomit from his face. He parts his lips to the offered glass, so grateful for the coolness of the water that he doesn’t even think that it might be poisoned.

The skinny man helps him to the floor and leans him against the wall, offering his jacket when Castiel shivers.

They sit in companionable silence when he finally speaks. “Is your real name Castiel Pokrovitel?”

Castiel snorts. “What do you think?” Sarcasm works best to conceal truths. He looks over to the man and smiles. “What’s your name?”

“Detective Fitzgerald,” he replies. He smiles back at Castiel before his gaze darts to his knees. “Are you working with the Bratva, or do you con for Rothstein’s group?”

“What do you know about the Bratva?” Castiel is surprised that the man even knows about such groups; Rothstein’s been under so much protection that it’s been a wonder even Levinsky’s gotten his whereabouts.

He’ll have to tell Dean all about it if he gets out of this shit hole.

“We know that they’ve been eatin’ up the Jewish militia in Jersey and New York,” Fitzgerald says. “We also know that you’ve been playing for at least three groups, and the only connection we can see is an artist called Winchester.”

“Dean’s not the connection,” Castiel decides to say. Fitzgerald isn’t so bad for a suit; a little awkward, sure, but Castiel can’t say differently for himself. He glances up from under his eyelashes, hoping to God that he’s pegged the detective correctly. “He’s the prize.” A little tongue over his lower lip, and he’s got him.

Fitzgerald’s eyes linger on his lips for a few moments before he glances up to Castiel’s eyes. “The prize?”

He shrugs. “Art is currency these days, pal.”

He doesn’t mention that at least three big bosses want Dean’s ass more than his trade. Castiel hopes Dean’s got his semi-automatic at hand; Levinsky’s been a little too schmoozy in his presence.

Fitzgerald shifts and pushes himself to his feet, and Castiel glances up at him, expecting to receive a kick or something. When he doesn’t, he can feel the confusion spelt out on his face, but Fitzgerald only laughs.

“You’ll get a phone call in a few minutes,” he says. When he reaches down a hand, Castiel takes it and lets himself be heaved to his feet. “Campbell’s got nothing to hold you, and you’re going to need a lift back to wherever the hell it is you go.”

Castiel nods. “Thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it, pal,” Fitzgerald mutters, leading him out of the interrogation cell and down a narrow corridor. Castiel rakes his eyes over every detail, making weapons out of nothing and finding ways he can take out the lanky man in front of him. There’s no doubt that he’s armed; Castiel saw his handgun when he shucked off his jacket. The only question is whether Castiel’s brawn will do any good against someone who hasn’t been halfway to next Sunday.

Fitzgerald leaves him be as he dials the numbers into the phone. It only rings twice before Dean’s gruff voice asks, “Hello?”

“Sally,” Castiel breathes. Dean suggested a woman’s name would work best for a verbal alias, and Castiel can’t get over it. “Thank God you’re okay.”

“Cas! Where the hell are you?” He sounds worried, relieved, and more than a little reassured all at once. Castiel doesn’t even bother quelling the grin that tugs at his lips.

“Jail,” he says. “Gonna come pick me up, sweetheart?”

There’s Mamie Smith playing in the background; so he’s home in Brooklyn. _Really_ home. Castiel strains his ears for the tune, glad to hear it’s Dean’s favorite. He feels his heart rate calm back to normal before Dean speaks again.

“Yeah.” Keys jangle over the music and Castiel feels himself grin wider. “At central?”

Castiel nods, knowing Dean will understand. He leans against the wall, wanting to curl up someplace warm and alone with his best guy and forget this entire smuggling business. Maybe Dean will go along with it if he asks. He hopes so.

“All right, I’ll be down soon.” The line clicks dead.

Castiel lets Fitzgerald bring him to holding. He makes small talk with the guy, talking about girls, about music, about nothing in particular. He fills out the necessary paper work, indicating that he’ll come back for questioning if necessary, though they both know he’ll be long gone by the time it’s requested. By the time Dean arrives, Castiel is halfway to believing he made a new friend.

“Just… don’t do anything stupid, all right Pokrovitel?” Fitzgerald runs his fingers through his hair, looking genuinely worried about Castiel’s wellbeing. It brings a smile to his face, and he reaches up and pats Fitzgerald’s cheek.

“Course I won’t. I’m the smartest guy on this side of the Atlantic.” He nods when Fitzgerald smiles and makes to leave.

The air is cold and reeking of industry in this part of town. Castiel spots Dean in the junkard they bought off of one of Rothstein’s men a couple months ago and grins unabashedly. His hair is a mess, his white shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose over his slim frame. Castiel has to actively prevent himself from sprinting over and planting one on him right there in the middle of central New York.

So he slides into the passenger seat, calmly, until he looks over at Dean and can’t help but reach over and tuck a strand of shaggy hair behind his ear.

“Where to, buddy?” he asks, trailing his fingertips down Dean’s cheekbone before pulling away.

Dean blushes before answering, “Wherever the hell we want, Cas.”

And a week later, when they’re spread sweaty and breathless in a hotel in San Francisco, Castiel can only agree that they’re where they should be, together and in each other’s arms. And if that means faking names and threatening bankers, Castiel can’t say he’s too objectionable.


End file.
